


satisfaction

by ignitesthestars



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Rey, F/M, Face-Sitting, Force Choking, Gentleness, Hugs, Kissing, Power Dynamics, Shameless Smut, Submissive Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 23:17:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15568533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignitesthestars/pseuds/ignitesthestars
Summary: “You don’t - you don’t get to just give up and die. After everything you’ve done? After all the damage you’ve caused? People aregone, Ben!”She’s angry in the way she’s always been angry - leashed, controlled, for all that he aches with the memory of her blows. It won’t consume her the way it has him. Hot breath fans over his neck and he can’t be sure if she’s gripping him now or clinging to him; it should make her vulnerable, should give him some semblance of the power he has craved all these years.But he finds he no longer has it in him to try and force this woman to do what he wants. Not that he has any idea of what he wants these days, and maybe that’s why it had been so easy to just close his eyes and let her do what she willed.He trusts her.





	satisfaction

There is a roaring in his ears and a very literal darkness feathering the edges of his vision and she’s going to kill him. Ben’s strangely at peace with the thought, with thirty years of pain and struggle and betrayal coming to end at the hands of someone who certainly deserves to do it. 

He closes his eyes. The image of Rey with her arm outstretched, the Force and his throat clenched in her fist, sears itself into his skull. Her face is screwed into a mask of anger and frustration that he knows intimately, and he’s content to let his last thought be a whisper through their connection.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thinks, because at the very least she should be able to enjoy it. Some satisfaction at winning, in her power, something.

The last thing he wants is for Rey to suffer under the same yoke of indecision that has weighed him down all these years.

*

A whistle of air breaks through the rush of his blood. It takes a moment for clarity to intrude, to realise that death hasn’t come, that he’s hearing himself breathe again. Lungs expanding, chest rising, and he feels the spill of tears over his cheeks as he blinks furiously, squinting through the haze to see the form of Rey barrelling towards him.

“You don’t apologise and then _die_ ,” she snarls. Her hand fists in his shirt and she slams him bodily back into the crumbling wall behind him. Dantooine, they’re on Dantooine, the tatters of the Force and a thousand years and more of buried history swirling around.

 _Kill the past_ , he’d told her, and here they are soaked in it. The laughter of ancient Sith and Jedi alike wants to wrap him up and suffocate him all over again, but there’s Rey with her burning eyes and her passion and the power of something _new_.

Her fist cracks across his face, where the scar she gave him bisects it. It knocks his skull back against the stone and he groans at the explosion of pain and relief that blasts through him. Ben understands hurt. He understands anger, even if he doesn’t understand why he’s alive.

“You don’t - you don’t get to just give up and die _._ After everything you’ve done? After all the damage you’ve caused? People are _gone_ , Ben!”

She’s angry in the way she’s always been angry - leashed, controlled, for all that he aches with the memory of her blows. It won’t consume her the way it has him. Hot breath fans over his neck and he can’t be sure if she’s gripping him now or clinging to him; it should make her vulnerable, should give him some semblance of the power he has craved all these years.

But he finds he no longer has it in him to try and force this woman to do what he wants. Not that he has any idea of what he wants these days, and maybe that’s why it had been so easy to just close his eyes and let her do what she willed.

He trusts her.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been able to say that for himself before.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” His voice is rusty, halting with disuse. He’s not sure when he last spoke to another sentient being. “I don’t think I ever did.”

“I should kill you,” she replies, resting her forehead against his chest, over his heart. “You deserve to die.”

“Yes.”

“I should hate you.”

She doesn’t. There’s that anger and confusion and despair, but she hasn’t hated him since that first moment on Starkiller.

“Yes,” he says, and waits.

*

Her mouth is hard and hot against his, a kiss that’s half teeth and all hunger. He should be shocked or taken aback, but hasn’t this been simmering between them for months? Since the first time she had dared to reach across the galaxy, the tips of her fingertips brushing his?

Those fingers fist in his hair, dragging his head down to her level and he follows eagerly, glad for the guidance, for the fact that she wants this at all. Somewhere in their timeline is a Rey who would be horrified at being so close to a monster, but the woman pressed flush to him now is a little monstrous herself, touched by war and the Force and the truth of her own history.

She feels his thoughts and her pang of agony echoes through the connection between them, the acknowledgement of something precious lost forever.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps into her mouth. She growls, teeth scraping over his jaw, laying biting kisses over her throat.

“Shut up.”

His hands splay over the small of her back, a fine tremor running through his entire body. He doesn’t push too hard, doesn’t press too tightly, unsure if it’s terror or desire ruling him now. He wants to drag her close, wants to dig his fingers into her flesh, whisper into her skin, wants - wants her to want the same thing, and that’s where the terror seeps in

“You haven’t taken any part of me. _I_ changed me.” 

The pressure in the air increases, the roiling power of her strength in the Force brought to bear. More than the sharp threat against his throat, that makes him gasp, makes his hips jerk against her, overcome by the desperate heat infusing his bones.

They pause - or rather, she pauses, hands slipping away, and he reins himself in as best as he can. He has to be a fucking sight, all needy gasps and red marks on pale skin while she barely looks fazed, a little furrow between her brows that he just finds unbearably - it’s unbearable. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“This,” she says slowly, “is a bad idea.”

Ben nods dumbly.

“Take off your shirt.”

He’s fumbling with the hem before the words are even out of her mouth, her intentions thick in the air between them. A thrill of uncertainty flickers through him, the brief hint of _I haven’t_ before he brushes it off and drops to his knees before her.

And there’s the satisfaction that had been missing before, a pleasure lighting in her eyes that he doesn’t think either of them want to examine too closely. Her fingers are gentle this time as they card back through his hair and he sucks in a shuddering gasp of air, pressing his forehead to her stomach.

He is - he is the Supreme Leader of the First Order, and he’s nothing. He’s nothing like this except whatever she wants, and there’s a sweetness that accompanies the thought, trickling down the base of his spin. Large palms skim over the back of her thighs, under her tunic.

 _Can I?_ he thinks, and hears a long, steady breath out from her.

“Yes,” she says. Her nails scrape over his skull, the barest touch crackling along his nerves.

Somewhere out there is a world where he teases, where has the backbone and the brain power to lead her someplace soft and worship her as she deserves. But that world isn’t here and neither is the Rey who belongs in it. 

His Rey wants him here on his knees, fumbling with her belt until it drops to the hard ground. His Rey wants the tremble in his body as he pushes her tunic up, wants the sob in his throat as he kisses her hip, wants the scrape of teeth as he explores the strip of skin over her waistband. His Rey hears _nothing_ whisper in her brain, and says _yes_ again, clenching her fist.

“Ah--” 

He gasps, unable to stop the sound before it escapes. She jerks his head away from her ( _no, no, **please**_ ), but after a second of blind panic he realises she’s not shoving him all the way back.

“Pants,” is all she says. 

(and there’s another world where he pretends to misinterpret her or maybe that’s what she meant all along and he deals with her leggings--)

Rey lets him go just long enough for him to peel his trousers off and he doesn’t trip over himself or stumble, but his knees do crack against the ground in his hurry to get back to her. He doesn’t think that either of them care. Has stopped thinking entirely, really. His hands are under her tunic again, grounding himself in her flesh, pushing it up higher until his tongue can paint lines over the flat plane of her stomach, the dip and curve of muscle and bone. 

She strokes his hair back off his forehead and he’s so fucking hard he might just die. He curls his fingers into the waistband of her leggings, glancing up at her for reassurance, confirmation, _is this what you want?_ He can see the lift and drop of her chest, a little faster than normal. But her expression is impassive when she nods and somehow that’s better than if she’d been sweet or kind with it. He wants to please her. He wants to work to please her.

He tugs her leggings down, kissing her hip and the seam of her thigh, moving inwards. She’s went already and the scent of her nearly overwhelms him. He wants - needs - to taste her, is consumed by the thought of it. He feels a thrill of - of something from Rey, smugness or satisfaction or something equally worthy of her and that’s all the warning he has before she’s shoving him back, one foot planted in his chest, the air punching out of him when his back scrapes across the rough stone below.

She drops to her knees, straddling his torso. He stares up at her, wide-eyed and worshipful; she kisses his forehead, the bridge of his nose, brings a searing heat to his eager mouth and he can’t decide which one he loves the most as her teeth pull at his lip. She breaks away and he grasps at the thread of _intention_ dangling from her, nearly unravelling himself when he tugs on it.

“Please,” he gasps, hands flying to her waist, tugging her higher, closer. “ _Please_.”

“Stars, you’re desperate.” Her voice is soaked in wonder. “For me?”

“Yes.” Her thighs bracket his face. “It’s all for you.”

In the end he’s not sure if he pulls her to him or if she lowers himself, but his mouth eases over her cunt, slick and salty-sweet, tongue flicking out tentatively to slide up her slit. It wrings a moan from her, a jerk of her hips that she does nothing to restrain and he feels his cock twitch without any further stimulation, his fingers curling into the soft flesh of her waist.

He tries again, firmer this time. Runs the flat of his tongue over her clit and that’s when she remembers his hair, because she needs something to hold on to, needs something to squeeze the tension out that’s building with each inexperienced movement of his mouth. It’s not like anyone has ever done this to her before either, and a possessive surge sweeps through Ben’s body, so powerful that he groans into the wet heat of her, his hips thrusting up against nothing. 

Her scarves flutter down on either side of him, her tunic half covering his face because she’s still mostly dressed and he’s naked, vulnerable, open to her even though she’s the one with her legs spread over her face. He sucks on her clit, gentle at first and then with the edge that she craves, the loops of pleasure from her to him and back again informing his every move better than experience ever could.

Breathing becomes secondary to Rey, everything becomes secondary to everything as she grinds down against him. The muscles in her thighs pull taut and tremble and she hunches over the top of him, hips chasing that high and he works his mouth over and over, giving her everything, whatever he can until--

She cries out, one short, sharp sound as her thighs clamp around his head and he feels the flutter of her cunt against his lips, her orgasm rocking through her. He whimpers, cock bobbing from pure need, ruined by her pleasure and his. She can feel it, he knows she can feel it, but she still takes her time in easing back, resting against his chest for a second before she rolls onto her side.

He wants her. Every part of him aches for her, her name a litany in his skull, _Rey Rey Rey Rey Rey_ , but he waits. Because he can’t take her rejection, because he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, because he likes it (loves it, craves it) when she demands his next move. Her brown eyes are inscrutable as she rests on her side, scraping over his face, gentle fingers caressing his cheek.

“You’re a mess,” she says, a breathless laugh behind the words.

“Yes,” he says, wondering if he’ll ever give her another word. He doesn’t think he needs to. She knows all of him by this point.

“I suppose I am too.” That molten gaze flickers down, widens slightly, is joined by the faint curve of a smile as she sees the state he’s in. Pre-come leaking from his cock, his hips moving in tiny circles, unable to keep still, desperate for any kind of contact. 

She slides her hand down his chest, pinching one of his nipples, twisting cruelly when that draws a sound from him. It hurts, but it hurts good, another pulse of pre-come dripping from the head onto his stomach. She trails her fingers lower, too light, too soft, dragging through the mess he’s made before encircling him with her thumb and middle finger.

He thrusts up helplessly, mouth falling open. There’s hardly any pressure to her touch and he knows she’s doing it on purpose, torturing him for her own pleasure and amusement or something else entirely and that--

It’s what he wants. He sucks in air, sharp and deep breaths over and over until she increases the number of fingers around the length of him, the slow drag of her hand gaining speed. His breathing grows shallower and shallower, the rising need in him threatening to tear him apart. Then her whole hand is around him and he can’t breathe at all as she works her fingers over the sensitive head and some dim, distant part of him registers the stirring of the Force, the pressure on his throat, the low keening sound escaping from him.

He comes, the pleasure and the heat ripping through his body on a wave of white light. His back arches with the force of it, suspending in this single perfect moment until she takes her hand away and he collapses, legs and chest and hands shaking with the aftershocks. His mouth works, head twisting to meet her gaze desperately, and that’s when the weight lifts off his throat and sweet air rushes back in and she’s there.

She’s still there.

Ben closes his eyes, lashes wet with tears. “I suppose I am,” she murmurs, and rests her head on his bare shoulder.

He turns into her as best he can without disturbing her. And it’s absurd, really, the two of them half naked or more in the ruins of an abandoned planet, curled into each other, holding each other. Maybe clinging.

Sleep claims them both. They don’t let go.


End file.
